‘What about your visa?’
‘Twenty-four-hour transit. We’re not going to need longer — and if we do, we’re going to have more to worry about than a few wog Immigration officers.’
Packer nodded thoughtfully. His own visa had been extended for a month, after Pol had taken his passport away for a few hours on the second day of his visit. Next evening he and Pol had each received telegrams from the Volkskantonale Bank, Aalau, confirming the further payment of £500,000 sterling into their joint numbered account; and four days ago — the day after Sarah had left with Steiner — Pol had handed him an express airmail letter, also from Aalau.
It contained photostated documents relating to the payment, together with a letter reminding him, as a new client, that the money could be drawn only against both account-holders’ signatures, and that in the event of the decease of one or the other, the entire funds reverted to the bank. Packer had accepted — with contradictory emotions — the fact that he was now finally and irrevocably committed: the departure of Sarah had already decided him emotionally, and the money was merely a further practical inducement.
They were sitting on the open terrace beyond the swimming pool. Pol, who had said little so far, was sweating, although the heat was not oppressive. He poured some arak into Ryderbeit’s cup of black coffee and opened a folder on the table in front of them. ‘Let us attend to details. First, the aircraft.’ He turned to Ryderbeit. ‘Fortunately, here in the Lebanon there are gentlemen who, for a consideration, will supply almost every modern instrument of war, short of nuclear weapons — and those, perhaps, are only a matter of time. Antiques, however, are more difficult. But there again, the Lebanon is a country rich in both the old and the new. An advertisement in one of the local papers put us in touch with the owner of a private museum for veteran equipment from the last two World Wars. The price he asked was abominably high, but I was forced to agree.’
‘Come on — details,’ Ryderbeit said impatiently.
Pol bent over the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Fieseler Storch, Luftwaffe, North African Campaign,’ he read slowly, moving his finger under each word, as though unfamiliar with his own handwriting.
‘A Storch, eh?’ Ryderbeit shrugged. ‘Not bad, though I’d have preferred a Lysander, mostly because they were on the winning side and didn’t get mauled around so badly. Date?’ he added.
‘1941.’
‘Holy Moses!’ He gulped his coffee and arak. ‘That’s a real old-age pensioner! If she survived that long, either they dug her up out of a graveyard and stuck her together again, or she was bloody lucky.’
‘Do you mind telling me what you’re talking about?’ said Packer.
‘Getaway plane,’ said Ryderbeit. ‘We’re going to need something with a long range, that flies low, handles like a kite, and can put down and take off in sand. And the Storch fits the bill beautifully. These modern tricycle jobs are useless. You touch the nosewheel down and hit just one bump or patch of soft sand, and go arse over tip and usually land upside down with a broken back. But those old World War Two babies were tough. They didn’t look it, but they were. Tied together with string — sometimes literally — and no fancy problems like stress. The Fieseler Storch was a reconnaissance plane, used for tank spotting in the desert, and could cruise at around 150 knots for up to six hours — which, with modifications, gave it well over a 500-mile range. And that’s just about what we need.
‘They have other advantages too. You can shoot them full of holes, and unless you hit the tank or the prop-shaft, they stay flying. They’re also tree-hopping jobs, and with no trees we can come in and get out well under any radar system.’
‘What about sandstorms?’ said Packer.
‘Even better. They really bugger up any radar. And while you wouldn’t get most modern planes through one, a Storch just bounces about like a ping-pong ball and doesn’t get hurt.’ Ryderbeit leaned out and gave Pol a huge slap on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Fat Man! Now tell me where she is.’
‘At Beirut International Airport. In the section reserved for private aircraft. You and Capitaine Packer are cleared for take-off this evening at 18.30 hours for Nicosia.’
Ryderbeit was suddenly suspicious. ‘Has she been tested?’
‘The vendor has assured us that the plane is in perfect flying order,’ Pol replied.
‘Yeah, these wogs never lie!’ Ryderbeit poured some more arak into the dregs of his coffee. ‘But don’t mind if I make a detour up to Tripoli, and if I don’t like the way she handles, I reserve my right to come back.’ His eye peered at Packer. ‘I take a hell of a lot of risks, soldier, but where flying’s concerned I take careful risks.’
‘One thing you don’t seem to have thought about,’ Packer said, ‘is that our 500-mile range may get us to Mamounia, but it’s going to be a one-way trip.’
‘Yeah, but there’s another thing I didn’t tell you about these Storch babies. They’re put together like one of those toy aircraft — and they come apart the same way. Wings, engine, tailpiece — all detachable, and the rest folds up and can be put in a truck. We can refuel her in Steiner’s backyard.’
‘And a truck’s been laid on?’
Pol answered, ‘Do not concern yourself — all arrangements have been made.’
‘Which presumably means,’ Packer said coldly, ‘that the Ruler makes his personal dates well in advance? Or perhaps Steiner makes them for him?’
